


More Sinister Than the Price of Doubt

by Fudgyokra



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [9]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Extremely Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Past Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, mentioned underage sladedick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 19:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Who else was going to remind Damian how much Batman needed a Robin?





	More Sinister Than the Price of Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Anon asked: Dick/Damian for /if I can't have you/ in the bad things bingo? Maybe Dick's not ready to lose his Robin so he tries some of the tricks Slade used on him?
> 
> Prompt: If I Can't Have You
> 
> Title from The Crüxshadows's "Deception."

Dick knows he’s out of his mind for even _thinking _about doing what he’s doing, but it isn’t stopping him. Neither is the insistent way Damian is panting wetly around Dick’s fingers, which are jammed just far enough down his throat Dick can feel the muscles spasm whenever the kid struggles to swallow.

Faintly, Damian moans. Dick smiles even though he knows it can’t be seen from where he’s sitting, slotted firmly against Damian’s back with his other hand down the front of the green Robin tights. It’s offensive to any normal person’s sensibilities, what he’s doing. In fact, it’s offensive to his own. Knowing these things makes the guilt burn in his stomach, but Dick remembers the threats Damian had made of retiring the Robin mantle and of leaving the manor, and he knows he can’t let that happen.

With Bruce gone, who else was going to remind Damian how much Batman needed a Robin? He wouldn’t listen to Tim, and, frankly, the only person he found worthy of his attention at all was Dick, so how could he sit by and let the one good thing they had made after Bruce’s death turn to ruin? He can’t stand the thought of losing the relationship he had forged with the boy who desperately needed a hero.

He knows he isn’t being a hero when he speeds up his strokes and makes Damian’s hips buck off the chair, but the way those thin thighs tremble makes Dick swallow hard around a lump of emotion he can’t quite place. Though it oscillates primarily between shame and lust, somewhere past all of that, there is a strange sense of pride from seeing his Robin take the stimulation so diligently, as if it were any other task he could have assigned him. Damian trusts his guidance, and Dick knows there is a part of him that wants this, even if it’s birthed purely from the desire to please Batman.

Dick also knows he could talk himself in circles all night and there would still be no scenario in which what he was doing was morally correct. Still, it had to be done, because he couldn’t let the world take Damian away from him like it had taken Bruce. Of course, he wouldn’t let anyone else have him, either. Only the two of them can be the Dynamic Duo now. They are the ones who know each other intimately enough to fight side-by-side, the ones who trust each other without exceptions, love without conditions. And only late in the graying dawn after another sleepless night will Dick admit he also simply doesn’t want such a fiercely beautiful boy to belong to anyone else. It is selfish in that respect. He still believes it’s not just for his sake but for the kid’s, too.

Damian, who needs a mentor; needs a purpose; needs a _father._

The first face to flicker in Dick’s memory is not Bruce’s.

There’s something else—something _more _lurking beneath the surface of his methodology. The way he convinces himself this feels more right than wrong is distinctly flavored with things he was taught under a different mask, by a man they all know as Deathstroke. He still remembers the way Slade touched him, held him down and dragged pleasures out of the depths of him that he hadn’t even known could be felt, least of all by a body as young as his own had been.

He feels sick, but he doesn’t stop.

He can’t stop, not when Damian groans so prettily and twists in his arms, head falling back against Dick’s shoulder as he arches. His muscles lock, holding him in the pose, and Dick knows exactly how the orgasm wracks him from the way he shakes and drools around the fingers now pressing down on his tongue.

The most enthralling part is seeing his calves twitch from where they hang over the arms of the chair, his little green boots bobbing with the movement. Dick would have bet money Damian’s toes are curling inside them, and he briefly considers yanking those long red laces apart and undressing him from the bottom up, but pushes the thought away. Another time, perhaps.

When Damian collapses against him, Dick drags the pads of his fingers along the boy’s tongue, reveling in the whine he receives when he pulls them out completely. For a moment there is a strand of saliva still connecting them, and he enjoys the way Damian looks completely debauched with his lips shiny and wet, his face flushed all the way to his ears. There is no hint of regret or anger in his expression, only a pleased weariness that tells Dick he can carry him to bed without incident, at least for tonight.

If Damian still wants to leave tomorrow, Dick would understand.

Then again, he hadn’t left Slade all those years ago. Those intimate teachings made him crave and had left him with a painful kind of attachment, and even years after he’d broken that attachment, the memories still stoke the fire in his belly when he least wants them to. Truly, he only meant to show Damian he could count on him for things that felt good, not only for the scrapes and bruises of a night of being battered, but he wonders—after he has cleaned them both off and walks the sleeping boy up the stairs to his bedroom, past the ghostly emptiness of Bruce’s suite—if he has done the right thing after all.

He wonders if Damian will be stronger than he had been. When he thinks of which option would be better, the possessiveness in his chest tightens into something ugly, something monstrous, and once that has crept up on him there’s no answer that makes him feels good.

In fact, like the times he wakes up calling for Slade, or for Bruce, or for _John _in the darkness, there is no answer at all.


End file.
